Essays on Life, Liberty and the Art of Depression

I hate tweeting…

Come on folks, get a fuggin’ life. If you are going to tweet about smothering your child, (see blog post below…NOT MINE) somewhere out there, someone is watching. ‘Cause in this age, well, one never knows… or does one? And sorry, but why would anyone who writes, want to write on something called “twitter” anyhow? Like is TWEETING the same thing as blogging? I mean tweeting is only one step away from barking. I KNOW! I am going to start a site called “BARKER” and I can bark all about when I eat my own poop, chump down on bones, fingers and toilet paper, hide my socks, and well, damn, hump another Barker.

Those of you who KNOW ME know the relationship I have with my daughters. You know the relationships you have with your children. Loving, frustrated, awed, annoyed, angry, blissful.

Tonight, as always, my evil mini-me did her “not going to sleep without one last hug” routine.Tonight, as always, I yelled, threatened and cajoled her back into bed. Tonight, as I’ve done in the past, as other parents have done in many ways, I asked if it was ok to smother her.

Which, if you know me, or anyone with my sense of black humor, is a joke born of frustration, annoyance, and yes, LOVE. Tonight this woman, who I foolishly followed on Twitter, who likely doesn’t even know me, had someone in LA call the cops.ON ME.

I just had to prove that my fucking daughter was all right because some “person” who has never met me, barely exchanged any words with me, couldn’t stop for a minute and think, gee, perhaps she’s like many other mothers, annoyed at bedtime. She couldn’t stop and think, hmmm, an email might suffice. Oh no, not our saviour. Only the cops will do. Only the cops at 11pm, where I had to open the fucking door to their room as they SLEPT to prove I hadn’t harmed them.Is this home grown parenting advice? Is this the ultimate end of social networking, the virtual version of the snoopy fucking irritating neighbour? While I’m really FUCKING glad this wasn’t a friend, there’s no more networking for me. Apparently, my brand of humour and venting isn’t suitable for all audiences, who might be better served searching for child abuses in her OWN neighbourhood, instead of ruining my fucking evening as I sit here enraged that a fucking stranger had the gall.So lesson learned ladies. Don’t do any venting in public. Don’t network. Don’t show anything LESS than perfect bliss and 400 tweets about contests and fucking blow it out your ass nothing. Because someone, somewhere might call the police on you and you’ll be sitting there in your pajamas watching a cop waste his fucking time, and know it. Thank you lady, for wasting my fucking tax dollars. If you’ll excuse me, I think they’re still raping and murdering the transgendered in Tennessee if you’re REALLY wanting to protect someone.